“Do you believe in God, Sam?” she asks, putting the book down. The smudged corner of her glasses reflects the stories we see dimly lit in apartment windows. She reads them like she reads our play, her arms folded over the stone ledge. “I don’t know,” I say, overwhelmed by her scent, how sweet it is, her skin, how it’s only a succulent’s distance from my own. “Do you?” Her lips twitch with wonder. “I believe in artists.” “Artists?” “Some paint the sky and the sea. Others sculpt mountains. The delicate sow flowers and stitch the bark along trees. Some sketch people and the lives they live.” Her
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